Sailing BlindA One Shot
by compassrose7577
Summary: Sailing off into the sunset together is romantic, but Jack and Elizabeth face a side of romance that not everyone prefers to consider. It's a one shot, with no plans of before and maybe only a few for after. This is a rare j/e fic for me.


**The** watch bell yanked him from his sleep, jerking him upright. He had hoped to find peace there, a respite, but his dreams only proved to be a swirling, distorted version of the reality he sought to escape.

Blinking wide and moving with a wooden body, Jack went to the bedside to check on her. She slept now, finally.

The previous day had started well enough with an early morning thunderstorm. It had been exceptionally warm the last few days and the crew had stood face up in the rain, a welcome relief. Canvas was spread and a goodly amount of rainwater was collected, replenishing the scuttlebutt and then some.

Elizabeth had risen late, as always nowadays, smiling wanly as she rinsed the basin with seawater and tossed it over the rail. The vomiting wasn't as bad now, only every other day.

When she'd missed her first monthly course, they'd held their breaths, wondering, waiting. Counting the days toward the next, they searched each other for answers, many questions too painful to contemplate. By the time it was clear her second course was not to come, it didn't matter any more. Her body was already changing, seemingly on a daily basis. Her breasts were fuller, heavier, more tender and darkening at the tips. The smooth flat slope of her belly had gone taut, a small firm roundness underneath. In addition, as if there were need for any further clarification, the morning sickness was answer enough.

The first few mornings, he held her head, feeling the pain of each wretch, helpless to do aught else. Smoothing back her hair and helping her rinse her mouth was all he could offer. Later, as the days passed, she waved him away, preferring to deal with it on her own terms.

Within a few hours of rising, she would appear on deck remarkably bright-eyed with a spring in her step. He hovered like a mother hen, fearing disaster at every sudden pitch of the deck, every step up or down the companionway, until she finally turned on him with a fire in her eye, declaring her own independence and well being.

Food was of little interest, regardless of what the cook tempted her with and she grew thinner, in spite of her status. Lemons became her constant companion, sucking on them whenever another wave of nausea visited. She found a bit of bread in the morning helped and kept a few crusts on the stand by the bed, blindly groping for it before her eyes were opened.

Nights, they would lie together, inevitably thinking about the inevitable, sometimes hopeful, most times with trepidation. Stretched next to her, he would splay his hand across her belly, anxious for any first sign of life. Nothing.

Slowly, she pulled away from him, her attentions going inward, her own awareness of her body and what was happening intensifying. Worry tugged at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and she smiled less and less, his customary banter falling on deaf ears.

They came upon a French merchant ship one day that surrendered after only a few warning salvos from the guns of the Black Pearl. When he refused to allow her aboard the other ship, a horrible fight between them ensued. Sword in hand, she whirled on him, dark-eyed, with a vicious curl of the mouth. For a moment, he thought she might actually slice him wide with her blade.

This particular morning, he had seen her on deck, nodding and waving from the helm. The swells were rising and the deck was taking a precarious pitch, but he bit back his concerns as she stood at the rail. She had been feeling particularly unwell for several days. Irritable and cranky, she outright dismissed any attempts to console or assist.

"Just leave me alone, Jack! It's nothing, exactly; I just don't feel well!"

Clearly, motherhood was not going to be worn with grace.

After his watch, he looked for her. Then one of the crew, Ragetti, came racing up the gangway from below decks, his already bug eyes bulging with alarm.

"We found her on the deck, sir, below! She's…"

He never heard the rest. He found her crumpled on the floor, curled in a tight ball. Gripping her stomach, she moaned, deep and guttural, then let out a gut-wrenching cry just as he knelt on the planks next to her. The surrounding crewmen looked from her to him for some kind of guidance; he had none. These were uncharted waters; and he was sailing blind.

What he wasn't blind to were the bright red smears of blood spreading on her breeches and deck underneath.

Listening to her screams quickly became unbearable. Rum was the only remedy available. She staunchly refused at first, her stomach immediately hurling the first dose right back at him. As determined as she was stubborn, she finally kept down to have an effect, the screams gradually fading to long, drawn out, quaking moans, as she scrabbled and tore at the bed.

He sat by the bunk listening and watching, as she lay there still curled, writhing and cursing him. Her cries brought into sharp focus images of an eleven-year-old boy, cowering behind a chair, hearing those same cries, seeing the same blood. Elizabeth's bleeding was constant, a new gush with every onset of spasms, seemingly the very life of her flowing out. The crew kept a steady supply of rags and towels arriving at the door of the cabin, but there was no staunching the flow, just as there had been no stopping it many years before.

When she needed it, he held her hand, wiped her face, and then clutched her against him as she wept when the pains finally subsided.

Finally, eventually, she quieted. Exhausted, she laid limp-limbed and dull-eyed as he bathed her in silence, avoiding her gaze as she avoided his. Too tired to resist, she accepted another dose of rum and he sat on the stool, his head pillowed on his arm on the edge of the bed, until she slept. Re-arranging the towels between her legs, he left her to rest.

In desperate need of some kind of restorative, he took his dogwatch, noticing how his hand shook as he reached for the wheel, knowing Gibbs and Cotton, who flanked him, saw the same. Not until his eyes finally settled on the horizon did he realize the sun had already set, a vague orange glow to port the only remnant of the day.

The night was a blessing, cloaking him in the oblivion he sought, needed, lifting at least a modicum of the day's burden from his shoulders. The Pearl must have felt his need for solace for she sailed her best for him, running well and true before the wind.

Gibbs came, and pried his hands from the wheel, telling him his watch was over. He'd lost all track of time; he was in no position or condition to argue. The cook had set a meal on the table, but he had no appetite. Instead, he went to check on her.

The cabin still smelled heavily of the coppery tang of blood, cloying in the air. As soon as he entered, he sensed something was different; maybe it was her breathing or sounds, but something.

She was burning; her skin stretched hot and tight across the high cheekbones, her lips flared bright red. He touched her cheek and her eyes opened to barely slits, glassy. She had kicked off the quilt and lay naked, curled on her side. He sent Ragetti, who still lurked at the doorway, to the hold for a shirt, or shift or bed gown, anything lightweight to cover her.

The next few hours he spent next to her, sponging her brow and body, answering back when she called him Will, holding her hand, nodding as she mumbled declarations of love and devotion.

He prayed for sunrise, hoping the light of day would show all this to be a bad dream.

Finally, the fever broke, drenching her in sweat. He carefully bathed her again. She lay like a child's discarded doll, indignant but too weak to resist. She tried, feebly, to push him away, but failed, his determination finally able to prevail. Gently, muttering soothing little nothings, he settled fresh towels between her legs again, slipped a clean shirt from the hold over her and tucked her in. She slept.

He stood in the protection of the dark, away from the illumination of the lamps, at the rail, looking down at the mass of bloodied rags and towels. Closing his eyes in silent prayer, he commended the soul of the child that was never to be to the sea.

He gripped the rail shaking with emotions he had never met before; he had no name for them, but allowed them to wash over him, one by one, knowing he could do nothing else. It was a necessary cleansing; to resist or refuse was beyond his capability.

As he turned toward his cabin, Gibbs approached, seeking orders.

"Gravelly Shoals are a-comin' up, Cap'n. Do ye wish for us to tack out toward Thompson's Island or fall off, go for speed, and head for South Channel?"

Bleary-eyed, he stared at Gibbs; he had no answers. Foggy of mind, he nodded in vague agreement, relinquishing command, for the moment, to his first mate.

He checked on her again, creeping, holding the large hair ornament at his shoulder, so as not to disturb. She slept quietly, peacefully. The candle on the stand near the bed cast shadows across her face, skull-like, her eye sockets blackened holes—a death mask.

Slumping in his chair, he leaned his elbows heavily on the table, bracing his head in his hands. As if a voice called him, he looked between his fingers to find a rum bottle before him, well within his grasp. As he took the bottle by the neck, the light caught his fingers, still stained dark under his nails and around the beds, the blood of his child still on his hands.

The rum offered only slight relief. With a soft thud, he dropped his head on his arms, seeking the escape and peace of sleep.

Perhaps the sun would rise and show it all to be a bad dream.


End file.
